For the Life of Me
by Loki'sLittleEnchantress
Summary: New and Improved version of my old story, Looking for Light! Adalina Rose Palmer is sick of being abused and neglected by her parents: World known scientists that secretly use their daughter for crazy experiments. Can she be free from the hand life has dealt her and find a real family in a group of heroes? And more importantly, love in a certain mischievous Asgardian?


**Adalina's POV**

I slowly blink my eyes open, feeling them weigh down, protesting. Darkness surrounds me and traps me within my small room, if you could call it that. A faint light streams through the crack under the door which gives me a better glimpse of the square room that I have stored into my visual memory. I have been forced to live in and tolerate the pitiful accommodations of the meager room that I have the _privilege _to have called mine ever since I was a small child.

A cot sits across the cramped space, about four feet from where I lay on the cold, hard, dusty floor. Several feet from the edge of the cot is a not too terribly big cardboard box that contains my small amount of clothes including two pairs of hand-me-down, two sizes too big tee shirts, two pairs of baggy pants, torn and scuffed sneakers, under garments, and holey socks. Not much of a closet is it? _Hah…nope!_ I have been so _graciously _given a very small, metal, wash tub and toilet cramped in the corner other corner opposite that of the cot and box._ Of all things, and they installed a toilet. Huh, I guess they were having a good day. That or they were completely and utterly off their rocker..._Other than that, my possessions are limited to soap, shampoo, and toothpaste that are replaced whenever my _parents_ feel like getting me some more. One time I had to go without for a week or two because they _forgot_ to bring me some._ Yeah right._

I have no personal possessions, my parents, though I hate to call them that, told me I wasn't good enough to own anything. _Me? Look in the mirror honeys. _They never cease to tell me that I am not worthy of anything but necessities, although by the way they act I doubt they even want me alive. That is probably true actually. The only time they come to my room is to order me down to the lab or to make sure I'm not dead… And they only care about the latter because I have the privilege of being the test subject in their experiments. That's encouraging isn't it? That is the only reason they keep me. For all I know, if they found an experiment successful, then I could be dead within five minutes afterwards. Again, how simply encouraging right?

Come to think of it, it seems as if in my parents' minds I am just a worthless toy that is used and broken for a child's entertainment. I am of no use but one, a toy in a cruel and inhumane experiment. Though in order to know the full story, one must look at the entire picture. Child's entertainment is what they called me one time… but in all actuality, they called themselves children without realizing it. _And thus no truer statement has been proclaimed_.

Some people, I would assume, think life is a story that always has a happy ending. Well, newsflash! It really isn't! Humans, though advanced in some ways, are unintelligent beings. Many take things for granted; whether it is family and friends, objects, their own happiness and love… All of these things seem to come naturally to some, but what happens when it is taken away? Nothing. Life is left bland and uninteresting. Coarse and dry like a cracked plain that hasn't seen water or rain, the water and rain that make it thrive. I like to think the water and rain represent the everyday sentiments and things that the human race just passes by without a second glance because they think it will always be there waiting for them. That, I have learned quickly, is not the case. In a sense, life is taken for granted.God, I sound like some philosophy freak_… Yeah, but you've had, let's see… seventeen years to think just to pass time? That sounds about right. _

There are a lot of things I want while I am still alive and breathing. I want to know comfort and love and kindness. I've never relished in the warmth of a mother's hug or the reassurance of a father's words, both of which seem amazingly magnificent. I often dream of masculine chocolate brown eyes that shine with love and laughter and a playful smirk that makes me wake up with a smile each morning I dream of it. Then there are nights in which I will find a reverie in a flash of warm red hair, like a mix of fire and the brightest of pumpkins; and accompanying the fiery hair is a toothy smile so cheery and affectionate that makes me want to dream and dream forever. The images pull me in like a mother's hug I will never receive and the emotional value of them seem to remind me that my life isn't over; that there is something after this dire excuse for living. They make me hope and yearn for the chance that I do have someone out there looking for me. Maybe someone out there loves me and wants to see me….But that is a one in a million chance. It's almost laughable.

The dream of the eyes and smiles are almost enough to comfort me on the harshest of days in this hell hole I take residence in. _Ha! _To think that I once thought this place as my home! If I could turn back time I would go slap some sense into myself for thinking such outrageous thoughts as accepting this house as a _home._ Most people would love to have a house as big as this one, what with the supposed openness and modern facilities that are pleasing to the eye. Yes, I can see that, but with the merciless and cruel encounters I have had here, I don't share the same opinions as the majority. Then again, when have I ever? When will I ever?

Truly, it is a nice space… one of which many would be proud of claiming ownership of, at least that of which I have actually seen. The floors made of beautiful, stained wood and the walls painted a lovely crimson give an aristocratic aura to the house. At least, apart from the closed off back hallway that I know by heart. _Those_ claustrophobic walls are a miserable grey and are accompanied by dulled and creaky russet floor. _Why? _Oh that is thanks to yours truly. I feel so closed in and smothered when I make my way down to the basement for my "checkups". _Right. Because I'm not smart enough to see through their shallow lies. Checkups…Ha! _The closeness of the hallway and my room is nothing compared to the bright and shining white openness that is the basement though.

The basement is off limits to everyone, apart from my parents and me; and that is only when I am forced downstairs for the appointments. If one were to walk down the stairs, they'd find themselves face to face with one of the most sterile and advanced looking locations they'd ever lay eyes on. And hell, it's so white and bright it may as well be the _last_ thing they see. Although it seems clean, my recollections of things that have happened in that environment are anything but. The phrase 'Appearances can be deceiving' is exactly right in this instance. To think it is a nice basement is ludicrous in itself. The spotless white walls and floor along with the cold, sleek metal that fashions the counter tops and tables have burned into my mind. And that is just the beginning of it.

Equipment that ranges from monitors to stretchers to wires; the variety is deadly magnificent, quite literally. Tools of the kind one may find in a hospital are placed in neat stacks, columns and rows according to the extent in which they are used. I can quite effortlessly picture the vivid images of bright white lights that very nearly render me blind when I step foot in the basement. Then again, I guess a better term for the space is laboratory. As much as I hate to confess this, I see needles and syringes more than anything else, even in my dreams. The sharp pointed metal sticks attached to plastic tubes are filled to distinctive lines with substances that promise pain or temporary unconsciousness. They lay in straight lines across of a table at the edge of "my" exam bed. _Yeah, bed. More like restrained torture table._

At times I will overhear my parents talking of a superhuman serum or some preposterous idea like that. A superhuman serum, now that is an odd goal is it not? Then again, it is the norm for me to find most things interesting, seeing as there isn't much for me to find thought-provoking. Things one and two saw to that; that is, having nothing to find peculiar or having anything to look forward to. Yay them, they actually succeeded in creating another way to make my life miserable! It didn't take me long to realize that the serum was the very thing that explained the constant experimentation on me. Still though, I don't understand how they could just use me like for such reasons. _Yes you do, idiot. They are sadistic monster, that's why. _

Sometimes the syringes draw my blood, and of late, they remind me of a vampire sucking the blood from its prey. It really isn't a laughing matter, especially when it is the bane of my existence, but I do need something to amuse my lonesome. I particularly despise how the cold metal ends precariously stab my skin, sometimes freezing it, burning it, or just causing intense discomfort. After certain engagements, my muscles will ache to the point where they feel as if they are stretching beyond my bones and skin just to be snapped back to its original position. It is torture. The agony is unbearable, but what else should I expect from maliciously vile animals?

They show no emotion, my parents; except for anger towards me and excitement when they think they've made progress in their experiments on me. If someone were to ask them if they had a daughter, they would deny it without a second thought. Do they care about me? Do they know how much they are hurting me mentally, emotionally, and physically? Have they ever? The questions always used to filter through my brain's thought process day and night when I was younger, but I now know the answer to every one of those queries. That answer is a clear-cut no. They get me down to the basement, whether it is by dragging me from my room or me seemingly going willingly down into that horrendous lab; though the "willingly" part of the latter is most definitely not the case though it may seem that way at times. They pay no mind to my pain, the exception being if it were from supposed progress they have made. But that only triggers appalling excitement.

They always stab me with the needles though, that is why the images and sensations of them are so etched into both my memories and present thoughts alike. No matter how hard I protest or how hard I try to resist, there are always the slender tubed metal knives that force constituents into my bloodstream. There is always insurmountable torment, no matter how much I desire there wasn't.

When I was younger my parents said it was to rid me of my "condition". I've always been reasonably perceptive, so it didn't take me long to grasp the fact that it was a complete and utter lie. I guess it is a natural born instinct for me to be wary of everyone; the incidents with my parents did nothing to help the matter. But the fact remains that my parents had in fact lied. I never had a condition; it was just a feeble attempt to get me to believe that there was a humane reason behind the torture. However, once they realized I wouldn't believe them so easily, lab time was extended and they began to treat me worse and worse.

I am just a test subject for an experiment they make no progress at; at least _I _can see that. Sometimes I wonder if they just harm me for kicks; they seem like the type to find immense enjoyment in juvenile suffering. _I mean, have they given me reason not to think that? No, so I could honestly care less if that is my conclusion. It does seem highly probable does it not? _My parents are ruthless, and it is quite easy to understand that. Sometimes I wonder if they are capable of love, or even have the smallest bit of sentiment.

Dr. Oliver Palmer and Dr. Jenna Palmer, also known as my parents, are well known scientists. They are in fact intelligent, I will give them that much… the vast majority of the world simply cannot comprehend the things they work on, only marvel at it. They are awful though, however I doubt the human population knows this. I have never known love, and they have never offered it. I have lived in seclusion with my thoughts as my only companion up until the day in which I found a pen and notebook that things one and two had written in. I slipped it in my pants pocket and thanked the dear lord in heaven that they did not find out I had it. They both went ballistic for days trying to find it of course, but they never could. I had it, and they would never expect little old insignificant Adalina Rose Palmer to have something so important.

I found some fascinating things in that journal that intrigued me. Now see, I may be very secluded but I am not clueless. My parents almost always have the news channel on the television while they experiment on me for what reason, I don't know. I overheard something about Manhattan, somewhere not too far from where I live, getting attacked by some sort of alien army. I was in complete shock at first. _Who would've thought? Aliens… really?_ I mean, that wasn't some sort of alien apocalypse was it? Anyways, the next thing I saw was something about super heroes that called themselves the Avengers. _Classy. _The Avengers were apparently a group of heroes who saved New York from aliens called the Chitauri. I remember seeing this huge debate about whether or not they were guilty for the destruction of Manhattan and whatnot. It honestly spiked my interest due to the fact that it wasn't something _anyone _saw every day, and to top that off, it surely wasn't something I would see on a daily basis.

Then something else spiked my interest. A man in a spangly type of outfit who had the title of Captain America was a sort of "super soldier" from World War II. Seemingly, he had been infused with some substance that basically remodeled him into a super human. Again, not something you see every day… you know, if you aren't _me._

Now, back to the "journal of information" I nicked from my parents. I've recently read that they were trying to recreate the serum used on the Captain. Every line, even the margins, was filled to the brim with letters and numbers of formulas, as well as lengthy notes that tried to converge into a probable solution. I spent days and nights closely reading everything I could in order to fill my brain with information that could possibly lead to the answer as to why I had been dealt this agonizing hand in life. After having read the journal from front to back, I had an epiphany; What if this superhuman serum was what my parents were trying to recreate, using me as a subject? Of course, they don't care about my well-being, only the fact that there was a possibility that immense fame and fortune were involved. Everything had finally made sense: why I have spent countless waking hours in the lab in order for them to find a solution that would ultimately bring the more wealth and fame, why I have been used and beaten and broken like a toy for _years…._It all made sense, and it pissed me off. They had no right to use me as an outlet for their own sadistic uses! No right at all!

Looking at the journal again as I finally fully sit up, I read it for information and recreation, seeing as I have nothing else to do. There are a multitude of equations and notes as well as theorems and facts littered like specks of dust on a rug throughout the journal. There is a beauty in being underestimated, though I would assume most people would disagree. You can get away with most anything as long as you are careful, that of which I have mastered long ago. To try an ignore the pain the adults bring about on me I listen in on their conversations and try, when not momentarily paralyzed by the test serums that are given to me, to look around at notes and words, numbers and letters to gain knowledge on anything I possibly can.

The visuals help keep me from snapping. That is an additional skill I have mastered over the years: hiding my true emotions. If I were to let them show, then there would most definitely be a chance of extreme punishment for me. However, I can feel my resolve slowly, ever so slowly, crumbling into bits and pieces. Once my resolve does in fact break, then I will snap, more than I ever have before. _That would be downright awful, yet amusing…. _I try keeping the emotions locked in a stronghold of a dam inside of me, but sometimes, I do crack under all of the pressure building up.

On the off chance that I do in fact shatter, it is not very pleasant, for me or the witch twins. Insults fly back and forth, though I have to restrain myself from not stooping to their level of vile physicality. Things are thrown, slaps, punches, the occasional metal tool; all have trained me to have better reflexes, that of which are very advantageous in instances such as these. Over the years I have educated myself in the art of keeping my trap shut; that is, when I _want _to. It has very recently gotten to the point where I know without a doubt that I will not be able to keep up my false appearance of slight sassiness for much longer and I will finally come out with a very open snarky bitch outlook and not be afraid to say what needs to be said. With what the overuse of harsh insults and excruciating experimentation every other day, the day in which I finally have had enough has long since been coming.

Even though the insults and the physicality of the witch twins' games genuinely hurt both mentally and physically, I have been able to build a wall of the most impenetrable stone and mortar around my heart that so much of what they say and do have little effect on me anymore. Slowly over the past 3 or do years, it seems that the real me is coming out to play. The one who shoots insults right back at the animals, the one who tries as hard as she can to defend herself, the one who knows for a fact that she won't be putting up with things one and two's _pissy attitudes_ for very much longer because she will find a way out.

As I find my way out of my thoughts, I ease out of my temporary parlayed state that I have been in since I was none too gently thrown into my room after hours of torment in the lab. I sluggishly stretch my arms and legs, sending sharp bursts of fire rippling through my bones. Cursing the name of Oliver and Jenna Palmer and wishing them dead while sitting up and massaging my temples distracts me from the pain and cracking of my spine. _Do they have at least one good bone in their body? _No. No they do not, and anyone who says otherwise is likely to get a kick in the behind from yours truly.

Last night, my parents called- scratch that- screamed for me to get downstairs to the basement. I could practically _see _the agitated glint in their eyes and thought it would be a pretty nice chance for me to mess with them. I didn't want to go to the torture chamber again anyways so I stayed in bed, pretending to be asleep, all the while internally smirking with mischief. But all good things must come to an end.

Oliver stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to my room open so hard I was sure it splintered. "Did you not hear me calling for you, little girl?" he demanded.

I remember the joy I got out of playing the sass master card when I had replied with a smile and a "Yes I did, but I just didn't care. Or is your head so far up your butt that you can't figure that much out _Ollie_?" I breathed out a laugh as I remembered that little comment.

Oliver Palmer had taken offence to that and went so red in the face he looked like he would explode. His eyes took on a darker tint as he shouted, "Shut your mouth you worthless thing! Do not disrespect me again!" _Ha! Disrespecting him? Please._

"Well what if find it quite amusing to _disrespect," _I had formed air quotations as I said this, "you Ollie. It is rather laughable to see how much little insignificant Adalina can get under the big, bad scientist's skin," I had finished with a sarcastic flair and a toothy grin.

I touch my face lightly, remembering the loud smack that had echoed across the room. I had looked back to my father with a slight sneer lining my face. "Must you go to such lengths? Don't you already do enough?" I had said deadly calm.

My father replied in a low tone, "Don't you ever use that tongue with me again. You will respect me. Understand?" I snickered as I think of my next reply.

Once again smirking at Oliver, I had confidently stated, "Yes, I understand, I know English. But that doesn't mean I have to respect you, and I will use that tongue with you whenever I want to."

Oliver had had enough so he grabbed my wrist and begun to drag me down the hallway to the door to the basement. I wince as I remember the cool, metal stairs hammering my back as I was hauled down to the bottom of the stairway. _Yeah. Ouch._

He had pulled me up from the last step and practically threw me on the examination table. As he strapped me on, Jenna took a needle filled with blue liquid and jammed it hard into my right bicep, so hard that I remember a spot of crimson seeping from the point. Oliver had glared at me and stabbed my left bicep with an identical needle. My vision had started going fuzzy with pain and my limbs burned for what seemed like hours, but I was used to it so I had just closed my eyes and waiting for it to end. My last conscious thought had been of pride that shone in those masculine, brown eyes that offer me much comfort in my dreams.

Snapping out of my recollection, I rub my eyes and groan. I begin to stand up, although shaky on my legs, and start to walk slowly around the cramped space of my room. I walk over to the cot and sit down again, resting my already weakened limbs. Just as I was about to lie down again I hear Oliver yelling from somewhere in the house, commanding me to be in the lab in two minutes or to suffer the consequences… like I haven't heard that one before. I consider staying in my room, wanting to piss Ollie off again, but decide against it, not wanting to stretch it too terribly much. _Don't want to risk ultimate death this time do we Adalina? _No. I would rather not.

I walk to the door and open it to find the hallway almost leering at me, like it is speaking to me. _Adalina sweetie, it's a hallway. Hallways don't talk. _ True. Shaking it off, I step out into the even chillier air and begin my way down to the lab from hell where the witch twins are waiting for me. I am so not in the mood for this today, then again…when am I ever? Still, I just feel like letting off steam today. A mix between a smile and a smirk makes its way onto my face as I raise my head and begin to walk more confidently. They are going to wish they never even called me down today. Well, all I can say to them is a not so sincere _good luck._


End file.
